Dar had been transferred to the old Oshkosh. He and old man Entigh would follow along at their best pace while his father and... grandfather... raced ahead on the Indian. Presumably, they’d all meet up somewhere shy of where the constables’ armored car had been shot up.

It was difficult for thoughts to wander as they raced along, jouncing and bouncing, and further tearing up the island’s main roadway, and yet wander Dar’s thoughts did. He wondered if everybody’s mind had difficulty sticking to the moment when they knew that they were going into battle.

Going into battle. The idea caught at him. How often had he dreamed of just this thing? Except his dreams had always had him nestled into the exotic cockpit of a heavier than air fighter, surrounded by strange and wondrous controls that he could never quite visualize, feeling the deep-throated roar of a big piston engine before him. Dropping from the belly of some giant destroyer or battleship — one of a swarm of heroes defending the empire from nameless and formless foes in single combat. Darnan Palanna— Ace pilot. Dogfighter extraordinaire!

Somehow, he’d never pictured himself racing to meet the enemy in a grocery truck. Bouncing along on the unsprung seat fit to pound his spine to jelly, listening to his best friend’s father cursing in languages he couldn’t begin to recognize felt counterintuitive. Oh, the Hercules was roaring loud enough to be a fighter engine, but they were pounding along at all of about twelve miles an hour. The family dog could run faster than this.

The rifle he was trying to hold onto as the drying mud of the road threw them both around the Model A’s boxy cabin kept trying to smack him in the face or pound down on his toes as he momentarily contacted one or more of the truck’s surfaces before being propelled back skyward with the next rut or rock. The bandoleer of ammunition draped over his shoulder flopped around continually, beating at his stomach and hip.

Nor was the inside of his head any less tumultuous. Who was he? His father wasn’t his father— no, that wasn’t right. His father was his father, but not who he was supposed to— no, that wasn’t right either!

Who exactly was Pop supposed to be? Martal Palanna, or this new-old person, Martin Palin? Mom certainly had her opinion, but hadn’t Mr. Entigh called her something else too? So who did that make her?

Nobody was who they were supposed to be, damnit! So who were they? And who, by extension, was he?

He looked over once more at Mr. Entigh. The man’s face was white and his eyes narrow, his lips skinned back tight against gritted teeth. He was tearing the Oshkosh apart and he knew it, but he didn’t let up on the throttle.

Even he had been called something else than Hendrel Entigh, Dar seemed to remember. Though, like all of them, it had been something similar. He found time to wonder what Hendrel Entigh had been before he’d become Hendrel Entigh the storekeeper. Had he, like it would seem everyone else on this godforsaken island, been someone —something— different in the times before? Or had he always been just a merchant and mechanic?

They tore through Plubbetton gaining speed and slinging mud from the Oshkosh’s fat tires. Entigh shifted the gearbox out of second and into third, and then high as they passed his store at almost twenty-five miles an hour, sending pedestrians scattering with the blare of his electric horn. Curses and waving fists followed them through downtown and out the north edge of the city.

Then they were back down in second, tearing through more drying mud and the ruts of both the armored car’s one way trip and the Oshkosh’s two previous ventures. Dar couldn’t pick out the narrower tracks of the Indian’s passage, though. Either they were lost amid the other trenches, or Av was staying clear of the road.

* * *

“That’s a lot longer than two hundred feet,” Av whispered quietly. “You ever seen anything like it before?”

Martin shook his head. “Nope. You?”

“Not ever,” Av replied in an awed voice. “Well, not exactly, anyway. Not something anybody built.”

“What’s that even mean?” Martin demanded.

“I seen one o’ them there Megalodons one time,” Av admitted. “Back twenty — twenty-five years ago. One o’ them flyin’ appetites as breaches every now and then and chunks down a slow movin’ mistwood freighter like fer a snack.”

Martin was looking sideways at him, eyes narrow. “Those things are just legends,” he said. “Legends to scare the poor sailors off the surface so the airships will have all the trade to themselves.”

Av shook his head. “No,” he said. “not legends. They’re down there alright. I seen one with my own eyes. Maybe not so big as that thing up there, but they exist. And it looks like whoever built that airship has seen one too, and was tryin’ to mimic it.”

Indeed, the great, crimson shape looked almost alive, floating low over the wall, with her sweeping lines and fin-like wings. The way she held at her moorings in the breeze made it seem as though she was pulling at the tether, eager to be away from the demeaning grip of land. Of course, the balloons from which she depended marred the effect more than a little.

Some few men could be seen moving about on deck, but the angle was bad for that. Of the activity within the stead itself, nothing could be seen. The gate was closed and the walls high enough to prevent any spying from ground level.

“Those ain’t normal pirates,” Av decided.

“Ya think?” Martin’s voice dripped sarcasm.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

* * *

Old man Entigh began slowing the groaning truck while there was still nothing but forest to be seen. The engine no longer sounded healthy, and the radiator was spitting steam like a tea kettle in need of attention. The truck was mud to the top of the windscreen, which had developed several cracks over their insane journey.

Atop his other worries, Dar gave thought to who it was going to be that cleaned the Oshkosh up after this whole mess had died down. He was very afraid that he knew.

They spotted the blue and red motorcycle ahead, although it was mostly roadbed brown at this point. Av had spent some time at least on the road. He’d pulled it off into the grass at a clearing that amounted to little more than a wide spot. There was no sign of either of the riders.

Entigh pulled the ailing truck up behind the parked motorcycle and waited quietly for the engine to cool somewhat before shutting it down. Even in his manic haste, he realized that he might yet need the old girl again, and he didn’t want to seize the block way out here between noplace and anyplace.

Dar didn’t wait. Even as the truck was slowing to a stop, he was out on the running board. He leapt to the ground on shaking legs, stumbling a bit before steadying his gate. It had been a very difficult day already and he’d started it out with a badly bruised leg.

Taking a deep, calming breath, he slowed to a limping walk and hauled back on the bolt of the Garand Av had passed him before he and Dar’s father had charged out of the Palanna stead like they were in a race. Slipping a loaded en bloc clip from the bandoleer, he pressed the clip down into the action with his thumb as he walked, his eyes scanning the tree line. He wondered where the other men had gone. His thumb came clear almost unconsciously as the bolt slammed home on a round of .276. Ten rounds now, ready to go. Dar eased the safety back into the trigger guard and brought the rifle down to low port, eyes never leaving the trees.

It was like the games Av had been having him play since he was eight, except it wasn’t a game this time, was it? He wasn’t stalking boolies anymore, or even the wily old man who, it seemed, had more secrets than that Cranston guy on the radio.

The Indian, covered in mud though it was, showed no sign of damage beyond what its lunatic pilot might have managed with the journey. There was no blood, and the only tracks around it were from boots he knew.

He felt strangely calm. For all the panic he’d been experiencing the morning long, now that he was about it, he realized that he knew what he was doing. Like tearing apart an engine that he’d torn apart and rebuilt countless times before.

A note in Pop’s scrawled handwriting lay on the sidecar seat atop the two leather jackets, held in place with a couple of cartridges. Stay.

Like ordering JoJo not to chase rabbits. He wasn’t insulted. Still scanning the trees all around, he returned to the steaming, smoking truck.

Entigh was up in the bed, untying boxes and sliding them to the rear gate.

“You want me to take them down?” Dar asked.

“Not just yet, thank you, Dar,” Entigh replied distractedly and without looking up from his task.

Dar nodded and turned away, cradling the heavy rifle like an old friend. He could top mellits at something close to three hundred yards with this rifle. With the big four power telescopic sight attached, he could more than double that. No scope today. But on the other hand, it didn’t look like he was after mellits either.

He twisted his torso around a bit as he walked, trying to get used to the weight and feel of the heavy pistols and the unfamiliar constriction of a waist belt — two really, if you included the cartridge belt he was now wearing along with its various accouterments.

He saw no sign of any airships, pirate or otherwise. He eased back towards the truck. “Mr. Entigh?”

“Yes, Dar?”

“How far are we from Northridge?”

Entigh straightened from his task, swiping at his sweating brow with a forearm. “Two miles?” he ventured. “Maybe a bit less?”

Far enough but also close enough. All would depend on how competent these pirates were and what they were about.

It was coming to Dar that a lot about this attack just didn’t make much sense. Why attack Northridge? As far as he knew, there wasn’t anything there that you couldn’t find on any other small stead anywhere on the islands — many of them much more amenable to airship landings.

Certainly Northridge possessed no great wealth. Unless they were allox rustlers. And even then, how did you fit enough allox into a two hundred foot ship to make any money at it? Even the local ranchers butchered the beasts before shipping them off to market. Butchering was a task for weeks, and it would be suicide to try and hold a stead for more than a couple of days.

There was a Royal Navy air group at Eastmarch, and that was less than two days off when they weren’t in a hurry. For pirates, they’d hurry. And when the Crown sent a force to address pirates, they didn’t send a small one. A single ship and its crew wouldn’t even amount to a clearing of the guns.

So why hang around? What could possibly hold their interest in a backwater stead so intently that they’d stay even a day? A thought struck.

“Should we be able to see the airship from here?” he asked. “I mean, is it possible that they’ve already gone?”

Entigh peered over a shoulder at him, his face betraying fear. “No,” he said. “Not from here. Half a mile or so further up and we might catch a glimpse over the trees.

“Honestly, I don’t know whether they’re still there or not, Dar,” he sighed. “I only know that they were there four hours ago.

“I know what you’re thinking.” he said shakily. “If it were only a raid, why tarry? Why would they still have been there when the militia arrived after nearly eight hours? I just don’t know. It doesn’t make any sense to me either.”

Dar nodded, eyes still sweeping the tree line. Regardless of their motivations, he figured it was best to proceed as though the pirates were still there and still a danger. Back at the stead, Mr. Entigh had said professionals. Al-right, so treat them as though they were professionals.

A genuine military force would have patrols out this far. How small or how big and with what sort of frequency would depend entirely on the size of the force and what their mission was, but it was safe to assume that somebody from the airship was probably out there in the trees guarding the approach. He ached to go in there and find them, but the note had said stay.

Hendrel Entigh finished his transfer of cargo and returned to the truck’s cabin, hauling a smaller version of Av’s canvas bag from beneath the seats. Zipping it open, he removed a green canvas cartridge belt and holsters, buckling it around his waist. A well worn Drake double action revolver followed, going into the holster after he’d ensured its load, securing the half flap. A second followed.

That done, he reached back into the bag to retrieve a Short Magazine Lee Enfield rifle, hauling the bolt back and feeding a couple of stripper clips of .303 from the cartridge belt into the internal magazine. Pushing carefully down on the top round until it cleared the bolt face, he cycled the bolt closed on an empty chamber. The SMLE’s action was smooth as butter. Quick enough to cycle the bolt and chamber a round when and if the need arose.

“You’re going in with us?” Dar asked from behind him.

“I doubt your dad would let me,” he said resignedly. “Once, maybe. These days, I’d just mostly be in the way.

“But I’m also not going to just sit here and wait while my Evie and grandchildren are in danger. I’ll do whatever Martin tells me to do as best I can. And it isn’t like I’ve never fired a rifle in anger before, son. I mean, I’m no Pale— er... I’m not your father, but I get by.”

Dar gave him an odd look that he didn’t see before turning back to patrolling the clearing.